


at the bottom of everything.

by teethrotter



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Casual Sex, Clothed Sex, Coming Out, Consensual, Dirty Talk, Heavy Petting, M/M, Masochism, Mental Health Issues, Past Torture, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Reunions, Smoking, Therapy, i have no fucking clue, it's not that deep, kind of ig, sex as a coping mechanism sort of, technically, they get v close to fucking but not quite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 09:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teethrotter/pseuds/teethrotter
Summary: Even therapy leaves unanswered questions and untreated reactions.





	at the bottom of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> i really didn't try hard at all with this fic, hence its rather boring nature and disorganization. i pumped it out quickly.
> 
> tw for just about every graphic thing that accompanies the first saw film.

Therapy was a necessary evil for the both of them.

While hospitalized, the staff of specialists pushed for pursuing some form of talk therapy. After all, given the frequency with which individuals were beginning to survive Jigsaw’s traps, a specific ‘Jigsaw support group’ had been formed, and each of them simply _must_ be disturbed by the circumstances that had befallen them. The amputation of your own foot leaves a lasting effect, you know.

Lawrence swallowed his dismay at the notion of inserting himself into such a vulnerable, open setting and ultimately agreed to attend whatever counseling session the doctor recommended for him, so long as it was private and through the hospital; as accustomed as he was to putting on roles and performances, he refused to become involved in any support group centered in the shared trauma of an experience with Jigsaw. He was just a man who happened to run in with him; it didn’t need to define the entire course of his therapy. Really, he likely could have gotten by _without_ therapy, but it was always better to appease your clinicians. Of course.

Adam expressed the direct opposite sentiment. He had _exploded_ at his doctor: how _dare_ she even suggest therapy to him, how _dare_ she demand that he revisit the bathroom again and again, how _dare_ she assume what was best for him, how _dare_ she assume he was somehow mentally ill, she wasn’t even a mental health specialist, he wasn’t and had never been mentally ill, _thank you very much_. The ‘Jigsaw support group’ only infuriated him further; how had the killer evaded capture long enough to warrant a fucking _support group_ full of people he’d disfigured or tortured? How could the police possibly be this incompetent? They’d been led to the exact spot where he and Lawrence were imprisoned in that god forsaken bathroom, Jesus fucking Christ, did he have to seek the man out himself?

Sedation shortly followed before he could work himself up further and potentially tear the sutures from his shoulder.

They were hospitalized for a similar amount of time: Lawrence’s blood loss proved to be far beyond cataclysmic and had resulted in anemia. His condition was closely monitored; if he hadn’t cauterized his gaping wound on the leaking steam pipe when he had, he would likely still be on the floor outside of the bathroom. Physical therapy, fitting and manufacturing a proper prothesis, learning to utilize it with an accompanying cane, and acquiring the use of a wheelchair required more time still.

Surgery was performed to remove the bullet from Adam’s shoulder, given that it had shattered his clavicle and become infected ( the grime in the bathroom had indubitably been the cause ). His subclavian artery had been missed; otherwise, he would remain with Lawrence, only dead _inside_ the bathroom instead of outside. Once the scar tissue began to form, chronic pain shortly followed, indicative of bullet fragments remaining fixed somewhere beneath the skin. More due to the pain than any tangible deformity, the range of motion in his shoulder greatly decreased. A learning curve for the new constraints of his body was necessary, and he was ultimately in recovery more at home than in any medical facility.

Despite rooming within the same hospital for an extended period of time, neither of them made any effort to visit the other. Word moved quickly among the staff regarding the state they had been discovered in, and so they made inquiries about the wellbeing of their respective partner, but nothing more. It was a combination of the need for extensive medical care, reluctance to confront their shared trauma, and simple fear, but the result of the issues remained the same: solitude.

Eventually, both of their bodily needs had been addressed. Adam was able to discard his sling and Lawrence was permitted to return home to Alison and Diana. There was no communication whatsoever following their releases and the months streaked by in absolute silence, Adam never truly knowing what had befallen Lawrence, as he was sent home beforehand.

It was only by coincidence that they were reintroduced. Really, it was bound to happen, as living in the same city can only allow one to avoid another for so long, but that was what Adam continuously told himself.

He stood outside of a convenience store after purchasing a fresh pack, smoking one of the new cigarettes, passively observing the sun fall below the horizon. It had always struck him as unreasonably funny, the way the moon was so high and so faint in the later stages of sunset, and so he enjoyed catching it in that stage whenever possible. The air was hot and humid and summer had long since taken root. The time was nearing 8:30 PM.

The glass door squeaked open behind him and a young girl’s chatter was carried on the moisture. He was not even going to bother turning, as he was wary of children and their overprotective parents in the presence of cigarette smoke, but the voice that followed was enough to almost pry the cigarette from his lips.

“Adam?”

He moved so fast that he practically toppled, hastily switching the cigarette from his lips to his fingers. The rest was a blur of awkwardness, relief, and suppressed emotion.

Upon his departure from the hospital, Lawrence separated from his wife; their relationship was not functional as it was, and the trauma that he had brought Alison and their daughter combined with his sudden inability to totally support himself was more than she could bear. He trusted her with Diana, willingly signing off on partial custody in the terms of their divorce and moving into an accessible apartment. He was allotted weekend charge of Diana and resumed his job as an oncologist part-time, testing the limits of what he could tolerate with his cane and prothesis. Initially, he was reluctant to publicly use the wheelchair, simply due to image concerns, but quickly outgrew such silly anxieties when walking began to ache. The artificial foot and cane were regulated primarily to worktime use.

Not much had changed in Adam’s life since the escape from the bathroom. He had ceased his ‘private investigator’ work, instead opting for a more regular full-time job as a front desk clerk in a hotel with a small freelance photography business on the side. He learned to live with chronic pain and reduced motion. He smoked more often. He was still impulsive and perhaps a bit more prone to anger than he had been before. Nothing honestly notable.

It was wholly unvoiced, but truth be told, they were both incredibly lonesome. Lawrence had not had a ‘friend’ outside of work in a very long time and having no one to come home to was a major adjustment; Diana was only present about two days at a time, after all. Adam had always been something of a loner, driving people away with his harsh attitude and unsettling habits, but being cooped up in his apartment and in pain for so long had only served to really bring such to the surface.

The companionship that they offered to one another, neglecting the circumstances that had formerly plagued them, was refreshing. They talked frequently and met up almost just as much, Adam never commenting on Lawrence’s stump and Lawrence never addressing his smoking. It was as if the bathroom had never happened; they were simply old friends who just so happened to run into each other on the street after drifting apart. Nothing more and nothing less.

The bathroom, however, was far too strong of a presence to ignore. After much pondering and hinting, it was Adam who finally breached the subject, more out of a drunken haze than anything. Something about how angry he was that Jigsaw was still walking free, could very well be among them, either of them could have run into him at the damn store, why weren’t the police doing anything, things of that nature. It was only then that Lawrence countered with the subject of therapy.

With much painstakingly contrived persuasion from Lawrence himself, Adam eventually relented. He would attend therapy, but only if Lawrence would accompany him. Not because he was reluctant, you see, but only because he wished for Lawrence to take the brunt of the upset that would assuredly follow. The older man agreed with a wry grin that Adam pretended not to notice.

It was after one such session that Adam walked beside Lawrence, puffing on a cigarette with his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. It was cold enough to wear layers, but not yet enough to warrant snow. Lawrence’s gloves were soundless against the aluminum frames of his chair, gliding along to push himself forwards. He had grown accustomed to Adam’s lengthy silences in the wake of particularly dicey bouts.

Eventually, he finally speaks. “Fucking hardass. She’s thinking about trying a different type of talk therapy with me.”

“Is she?” Lawrence’s tone is entirely pliable, slightly high-strung and inquisitive, but comfortably so. He knows that the bite to Adam’s voice is not directed toward him.

“Yeah. Apparently, I’m still not managing my ‘PTSD’ well.” Adam removes his hands from his pockets to indicate his sarcasm with air quotes; while he now accepted that he was certainly mentally ill, he was unafraid of expressing his displeasure still surrounding the topic. “She said my outbursts have improved, but I’m still having a hard time being exposed to anything that even vaguely reminds me of trauma. Load of bullshit, if you ask me.”

Lawrence hums neutrally in response. He makes no mention of how Adam had informed him of his tendency to urinate into the kitchen sink rather than utilize an actual toilet just the other night, nor how sporadically he bathed due to his debilitating fear of any imagery associated with washrooms. “You still have to follow whatever she recommends.”

“I know.” Adam visibly grimaces around the cigarette clenched between his teeth, his hands returning limply to his pockets. “Fucking therapists. Think they know everything. What’s the word for that, again?”

“Omniscient. Also, it’s their job to annoy you and ‘know everything’.” Lawrence’s bluntness is cushioned by his relaxed, playfully sly demeanor. “Trust me, it used to get to me, too.”

Adam merely grunts, pausing to stub his cigarette out on the brick ledge adjoining the sidewalk, crawling up to the yard of a hilltop church. He pockets the butt and resumes walking. Apparently, all the fight had been drained out of him by the therapist herself. “Whatever, ‘Mr. Strict and Professional’. I’d be surprised if you even talk about anything but, like, work during therapy. Or that one coworker who bothered you that one time. Surely that _is_ the most traumatic thing that ever happened to you, right?” Clearly, he’s joking, but there is undeniably a bit of venom lurking beneath his outward exterior.

Lawrence is hardly rattled; Adam has said much worse to him before ( they have fought, and quite nastily ) and neither of them currently possess the energy for it. He has learned to take just about everything much less seriously than he previously would have; it doesn’t matter all that much. “Yes. Back in the summer of my second year of oncology practice. It was the worst thing to ever happen to me.” His delivery is dry.

Apparently, that was the correct response. Adam laughs, a quiet thing from the back of his throat, before launching into a cough – smoking tended to agitate his lungs further when the weather grew colder. “I’m sure it was. Poor Larry. So naïve and innocent.”

Larry. Alison had called him that before, but that is not why his hands momentarily stall over the wheels. “You’ve never called me that.”

The nickname was somewhat common, yes, but it had only ever been used to refer to him affectionately. _Very_ affectionately, at that.

“What? Can I not fuck with you a little now? Or are you just too high and mighty for anyone to use anything but your ‘oh so proper’ full name?” Adam effectively snarls, concealing his unwarranted hurt behind a wall of indignation; he had indisputably addressed the other man by that name before. “Well, sorry, _Larry_.”

“No. Nothing like that.” As predicted, Lawrence is able to deflect the exasperation as if it were nothing at all. Before the realization can dawn in Adam’s vexed mind, he adds, “I couldn’t care less if you call me that. It’s just what all of my partners have called me before, so I was somewhat taken aback.”

“Oh. Well, now I feel like shit,” Adam grumbles, his eyes drifting away from Lawrence’s face to focus on the sidewalk stretching before his feet. “Wait. ‘Partners’. Are you gay, Larry?”

“Adam. I was married to a woman and conceived a child with her.”

“Hey, man. You never know.” Adam shrugs exaggeratedly, and only with one of his shoulders. He has long since trained himself to default to exclusively utilizing his uninjured side in any sort of similar movement. “Like this: did you know I’m bi?”

It is something of a test. An obstacle to test Lawrence’s performance.

“Well, no. I didn’t.” Lawrence does not falter, goading Adam’s raised hackles to lower. At least, to a degree. “Hm. Thanks for trusting me, I suppose?”

“Jesus. You don’t have anything else to say about it?”

“No. Should I have something more to say? This has never happened to me before. There are much, much larger things in life to worry about than who someone else happens to get into bed with. Besides, you’re very… _casual_ about it, it would seem. Judging by how you just came out to me.”

“Never knew you were a psychologist, too.” Adam snorts, all but scoffing down to his current companion.

“I’m not. Just… In college, before med school, I _did_ ‘experiment’ a bit. Nothing that ever lasted, obviously.”

Adam abruptly comes to a halt. He blinks down to Lawrence, his brows screwing in disbelief. “ _You_? You married a woman, had a kid with her, had at least one affair with one of your own students, who was _also_ a chick –“

“Christ, Adam! I know all of this!”

“Just saying, it’s pretty unbelievable. Also, you totally just dated yourself saying you ‘experimented’ in college; only old white chicks say that.”

Lawrence grimaces in distaste, blatantly floundering for a counter to scavenge even a scrap of his wounded pride. “I’m not even significantly older than you.”

“Of course. _Eleven years_ is nothing at all.”

Dropping the subject and practically admitting his defeat in the matter, Lawrence continues wheeling himself along. Adam paces alongside him in silence, simply enjoying the cool air biting into his cheeks. Gradually, they make their way to the entrance of Adam’s apartment building, riding the elevator to the fourth floor and entering his residence. Lawrence rises from his chair, hobbling wordlessly to the outdoor porch; he knew Adam’s post-therapy routine by now.

An additional chair to join the one already situated on the concrete had been dragged out from Adam’s storage some time beforehand. Lawrence has recognized it as his designated seat and claims it as such, unabashedly settling himself there. He only has to wait for a moment before Adam exits the apartment to accompany him, freshly brewed coffee in hand. He sits in the remaining chair and shortly produces his pack of cigarettes, taking one between his fingers as he briefly neglects the mug on the side table. It is brought to his lips and ignited, quickly chased by sporadic sips of caffeine.

“Would you still go out with a man? Nowadays, I mean. College doesn’t count.”

The inquiry is sudden. “I haven’t thought about it.” Lawrence briefly closes his eyes, reclining back into his chair. Smoke has long since ceased bothering him; he has come to associate it almost solely with Adam’s presence. “I suppose so. I’ve never had a romantic relationship with a man, but, then again, I haven’t had much romantic success with a woman, either.”

“I’ve had both.” Adam always calms with the first few puffs of his cigarette, gazing aimlessly over the closed balcony, eyes half-lidded and body limp. “Mainly, shit was just sex, but I did have a girlfriend or two a while back. They never lasted long. Men just _understand_ shit more, you know? Longest relationship I’ve had was with one. Back in high school. Don’t really know what happened to him after we broke up. I mean, we only dated a few months, so it’s not like I just lost the fucking love of my life or anything. Never had a ton of romance, either, now that I think about it.”

“Sex is just more convenient.” Lawrence’s eternal bluntness was both a blessing and a curse. “Little time commitment. Little emotional baggage. Little effort. Convenience.”

“You’re so fucking clinical.” Adam exhales, smoke curling from his lips. Thankfully, Lawrence was unable to identify his current anxious state of mind, given that he was not even looking at him. “I don’t think you were built for romance. I could probably be good at it if I tried, but nothing’s ever really inspired me to try real hard. It’d definitely be easier with a man, though. I lean more that way.”

Lawrence hums. “Interesting.” The fact that the conversation is not at all tense, merely factual in nature, is somewhat jarring, but not enough to disrupt the sense of lethargic peace. “I wouldn’t know where I fall, really. Too little experience with men and too much with women. In terms of sex, at least.”

“Okay, ‘Mr. Pussy Slayer’.” Adam’s free hand briefly forms devil horns, sparing a sleazy smirk to Lawrence before he draws his legs up to settle in his chair, his knees leaning back into his chest. Slowly, his cigarette diminishes down to its filter, swiftly extinguished into the overflowing ash tray. Lawrence does not shift.

There is a handful of comfortable silence before Adam, far too casually for the subject matter, announces, “You never told me. How you could get out.”

Immediately, Lawrence knows what he is referring to. His gaze reflexively snaps to his younger companion, though he isn’t even looking at him, brown eyes affixed elsewhere. The silence is no longer comfortable and has become fully pregnant with apprehension.

He’s been anticipating this moment for a long time, and so his reply is planned. It does not correct the sudden tenseness to his chest. “You’re giving me far too much credit. I never did.”

Even that hardly captures Adam’s attention. He begins to fiddle with his pack of cigarettes, about half empty now, the tremulousness of his hands only visible because of how the sticks dance around their enclosure. Lawrence can hear him harnessing his breathing, undoubtedly a technique taught to him by his therapist. His eyes are firmly attached to the box and he does not speak.

“Alison. She and Diana made it to a neighbor’s house, because they’d been held away from us. In our own home. She kept calling the phone and the police were able to track it down to the sewer; that’s where we were. The sewer.” Lawrence massages absently at his own knee, just barely managing to disguise the grimace set into his lips. He can feel them beginning to quiver and quickly decides that he shouldn’t look at Adam, either. “I didn’t get very far at all. I… I had to cauterize my leg. There was a steam pipe. It was leaking, so I just did it there.” His stump aches and burns at the mere memory.

“It was too much for me. I passed out there. Apparently, the Jigsaw killer was just behind me. The police shot, but he managed to escape, obviously. If they’d been any later, I… I think we can both safely assume what would have happened.” Lawrence swallows thickly. Adam has not uttered a peep, has not even shifted himself. They are still unable to even peek at one another.

“That’s the long and short of it all.”

Observances abruptly connect in Adam’s mind. He had _heard_ Lawrence screeching in agony even through the thick metal door, had felt it deep beneath his skin; it had penetrated him like a thorn into his spine. It was soon after Jigsaw had fucking rose from the dead and left him to die in the muck. Soon after Lawrence himself had shot him. Soon after the excruciating pain had incapacitated him entirely. Soon after Lawrence had simply abandoned him.

Zep’s corpse had been so unspeakably hideous. His brain matter, fragments of his skull, more blood than Adam had ever seen, shards of his teeth, and much more unidentifiable matter had permanently contaminated the already shit-stained bathroom floor. Bashing his head in had produced such sickening, crushing sounds. The notion that his own hands were capable of such grotesque destruction, only to root around in a dead man’s pockets moments later, while his skin was still warm, thoroughly horrified him. He’d only escaped persecution because the police just assumed that Zep’s grisly death had been the work of Jigsaw and Adam had neglected to correct them, fearful of confining himself to prison and properly atoning for his crimes. He’d been nothing but a coward and a liar since he was born, after all; it was why he no longer held any form of contact with his family. He couldn’t honestly say that he cared much about either of those facts.

His head spins and suddenly he is unwell.

The screens of the porch become cold white tile, mercilessly closing in despite his efforts to breathe. The concrete floor is now horrendously filthy and made of the same material as the walls, Lawrence is no longer present, dead just outside the looming steel door of his apartment, bleeding out minutes after amputating his own limb, Adam watching helplessly as the teeth of the hacksaw bite into his skin, hungrily devouring his sinew and muscle and bone, spitting out his blood as their voracious appetite is gradually sated, never quite enough as they set their sights to his own fresh flesh instead –

“Adam! Stop it!”

Hands are cupping his cheeks. Wide green eyes gaze into his. Lawrence’s features have paled, his lips forming a thin line, gently pressing their respectively slick foreheads together. It is all too indicative of back then, but Adam now finds the walls retreating instead of advancing regardless.

“Stop it. Stop it.”

“ _Lawrence_ ,” Adam sputters, a sob tearing involuntarily from his throat. The tears are spilling as if pulled forcefully from his eyes and his fingers are shaking so terribly that he can practically feel the electricity causing them to convulse, clenched so tightly in Lawrence’s sleeves that his knuckles pale.

“You’ll be okay. It’s alright. I promise. I came back, didn’t I? I came back. I did.”

Adam gasps and pants for air so harshly that he drools. He is effectively slobbering, snotting, and sobbing into Lawrence’s already damp skin, but neither of them dare to pull away. If anything, Lawrence moves _closer_ , clutching the other man’s face so securely that he could very well bruise. “You’ll be okay. You’re alright. You’re alright. It’s over.”

Lawrence is too close. Far too close to merit anything good. Adam impulsively kisses him, body trembling and thumping with fear, his lips chapped and streaked with snot. The kiss is uncoordinated and disgusting, tainted with teeth and fluids that should not be present, but neither of them possess the willpower to care.

Lawrence does not even consider pulling away. His shaky fingers thread through Adam’s greasy hair, moist with sweat, aiming to clear any form of path. He hasn’t made the time to trim his hair in months.

Adam melts and wheezes and quakes, tongue effectively plunging down Lawrence’s throat before he can truly think to stop it. The older man takes it with little grace, practically gagging before he can properly register what is happening, but he grips tighter afterwards, each of them seemingly unable to edge close enough. Their bodies convulse with a mixture of fear and uncertainty as if propelled by electric currents.

Lawrence, previously having moved to kneel on his knee before his companion, is pulled upwards. Their lips shift and Adam is shuddering, hunched in on himself and visibly wracked with terror, his hands jerking in Lawrence’s sleeves. He’s struggling to balance on his singular good leg.

“Fuck me, Larry, please fuck me. Please,” Adam begs, no hint of arousal to his voice. There is not a dry square inch on his face. “Please, please, Larry, please fuck me hard, please –“

He’s suddenly all but collapsing down into Adam’s chair, lap made unavailable by his legs, drawn up to press to his chest. The position is supremely uncomfortable and almost intolerable, but Lawrence pays it no mind, hurriedly locking his arms around the younger man’s torso.

As Adam responds in turn, the feeble chair tips forwards and dumps them. Neither of them seems to even notice, fastened together as if held by a vice. Adam has yet to cease his mumbling, his weight pinning Lawrence’s body down beneath him and his tremulous hands knotted in the fabric of his jacket.

“Larry, Larry, Lawrence, please fuck me, I know you have a big dick, knew it since I first saw you, wanna feel it deep in my fucking guts –“

This time, Lawrence kisses him. The desired effect is immediate. Adam falls forcibly silent and pliable and Lawrence cups his face in his newly steady hands, manually drawing his head back.

“Shut up. Stop it.”

Adam’s hips jerk forwards, rutting feverishly into the older man’s pelvis. He’s hopelessly hard through his jeans. He continues to tremble and his voice is hoarse now, hardly pitched above a rasp. “More, Larry, hurt me more, tell me to shut my fucking mouth, just like you did before you shot me, before you _left_ me –“

He escapes the older man’s grasp and presses his face into his neck, huffing hot breath down his spine. He nuzzles his nose into his shoulder almost adoringly, his tone dropping to a raw, throaty growl. He mindlessly humps Lawrence’s thigh. “You lied. You never came back for me. You would’ve died and left me there all alone, fucking bleeding and starving to death because you shot me and all I had to eat was Zep’s fucking skin, you’d probably like that shit, you _sick fuck_ –“

Lawrence is the one panting now, unable to help himself. Adam is hard against his thigh and he hasn’t fucked anyone in so damn long, hasn’t even masturbated, his words are revolting but his voice is so fucking low and hot, Lord only knows how long he’s been needing a proper fuck to put him in place.

“Adam, _please_ –“

“Feel you, Larry. I feel you.” Adam abruptly palms at Lawrence’s cock through his slacks, teeth digging into the skin of his neck. The older man’s breath involuntarily hitches in his throat. “Know you wanna fuck me, wanna fuck me ‘till I cry, right here on the fucking porch where everyone can see you do it –“

Slowly, Adam’s shakes have been subsiding. Of course.

Lawrence snags a handful of hair in his fist, yanking Adam’s ravenous teeth away from his shoulder. He butts in just as the younger man audibly hisses in frustration. “Adam. Adam. You only want to have sex because it’d let you run far away. You wouldn’t need to confront anything if you had sex right now. Stop it.”

_That_ finally appears to appeal to him. Adam pauses, breathing hard and heavy. Partial clarity finally dawns in his brown eyes. Before either of them can move, sprawled and awkward and _horny_ , he lowers his head to rest on Lawrence’s chest.

“Don’t fucking say anything, Lawrence, or I’ll kill you. I mean it. Don’t fucking move.”

The man sighs. Wordlessly, his arms loop over Adam’s midsection. “We have things to talk about.”

“Shut the fuck up. I _know_.”

Eventually, after what feels to be several eternities, Adam shifts. He pulls himself up off Lawrence’s front and silently guides him to his wheelchair, just inside the apartment. As he produces a final cigarette, his partner texts Alison, informing her that he will be late in collecting Diana; something has come up.

**Author's Note:**

> saw canon ? idk her at all. realism / probable technology ? idk her either. thanks for reading :)
> 
> http://teethrotter.tumblr.com/


End file.
